


One Thing You've Already Got

by colazitron



Category: One Direction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colazitron/pseuds/colazitron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eleanor likes Louis' hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Thing You've Already Got

**One Thing You've Already Got**

 

Louis’s never really had a problem with his hands, but he can’t say he’s ever particularly liked them either. To be perfectly blunt, he’s never given them much thought. They’re _hands_. He uses them to write and pick stuff up and annoy Stan and tickle his sisters and get his girlfriend and himself off. He doesn’t really think there’s much more to them. When he starts teaching himself a few songs on his grandparents’ piano someone tells him that concert pianists need to be able to span at least an octave and a couple more keys ‘cause of how music’s written. He can do ten keys, maybe eleven if he really stretches but he couldn’t play like that. Anyway, maybe that’s bull to begin with and even if it’s not, he was never gonna be a concert pianist anyway. He figures they just have large hands. It’s not like his hands are particularly small. Sure, Stan struggles a little less with holding three glasses in one hand, but his hands aren’t that much bigger.

His girlfriend breaks up with him and then he starts seeing someone else and goes on the X-Factor and meets Harry. Harry’s 16 and cheeky and sweet and massively talented and clicks into place in Louis’ life like there was a space waiting for him to fill it all along. He can’t play piano for shit, but Louis doesn’t need to know anything about concert pianists to know that Harry’d have the hands for it if he wanted to. Compared to Harry’s, his hands do seem small. Their fangirls - they have _fangirls_ \- keep going on about how lovely Harry’s hands are - alright, how lovely Harry’s _everything_ is - and Louis delights in teasing him about it. It doesn’t bother him that while Harry’s hands get called “massive” and “strong”, his usually get labelled “dainty” and “girly”.

Or at least he thought it didn’t until he starts seeing Eleanor.

Eleanor loves holding his hand. She reaches for it when they’re walking about, lays hers on his on the table during dessert, plays with his fingers while they’re watching the telly and when she wants to get him in bed, she usually starts by kissing them. Which is not to mention all the things she does once they actually are in bed. Or the shower. Or on the sofa. Or up against the wall that one time of which Louis’s unsure how to ask for a repeat performance.

Point is, his first girlfriend left him because he wasn’t fit enough, his last because they never got to spend time together anymore and now he’s home less than ever and has got fucking dainty hands and really, really likes this girl. So when they’re snuggled up in bed together in a hotel in Paris, sort of but not really watching an episode of FRIENDS on his laptop, he just accidentally blurts it out.

“D’you think Harry has nice hands?”

She looks up from where she’s doodling on his wrist and blinks at him in surprise. He’s probably blushing and he wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

“Er, sure? I guess?” she says. He’s not really sure what answer he’s been looking for but it’s not this one. He should just wave it off and leave it at that.

“I mean, they’re, like, massive. He carries cans of coke between his _fingers._ Who _does_ that?”

Or he could dig his own grave a little deeper. Eleanor’s clearly taken aback.

“I- “ There’s no sentence following the one word and she shakes her head a little, mouth slightly open, clearly having no idea what she’s supposed to say. The thoughts are visibly racing around her head. Louis sighs.

“Is this... did you and Harry get drunk and wank each other off or something?”

“ _What? No._ What - how is this - why are you - you need to spend less time on the internet, Jesus.”

“Well, you’re the one who brought up his hands out of bloody nowhere!”

“Because they’re all huge and manly-like and you’re always all over my hands and they’re all-” he flaps them about in illustration,” - just.”

He stops himself because he’s lost the plot completely just now and sighs. Eleanor stares at him in total bewilderment. He can’t blame her.

“ _What?_ ”

“I don’t know. Just. Would you like it better if my hands were more, like, ... like Harry’s?”

She blinks at him before her face opens in comprehension and then she breaks down into giggles. Lovely. Not that he doesn’t love watching her laugh, but in this specific situation he would’ve preferred her not to.

“Are you actually insecure about the size of your hands right now?”

It hits him then, what he’s saying and he hides his face in his hands and lets himself fall into the duvet, burrowing into the starched, white fabric.

“You’re ridiculous,” Eleanor says, no longer laughing, but the amusement still colouring her voice. She runs a hand through his hair and then gently rolls him over so she can look into his blushing face. He is being ridiculous.

“I like _your_ hands,” she says decisively.

“Yes, but-”

“No. I like your hands, because I like that they’re like mine, only boy-hands, you know? They’re not much bigger, but they’re _different_. Your fingers are broader and you have all these veins and your skin feels lovely here. Plus, they come attached to your wrists and arms and pretty face and do you really need me to go on?”

“Oh, why, yes, do feel free,” he says, cheeky grin in place again.

“You’re an idiot,” she says instead but leans down to kiss him. “And I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“Good.” She falls down onto the bed next to him and takes his hand in hers.

“Now, how about we take these little hands of yours,” she says and pushes the hand in hers down her body, “and send them on a trip so you can see just how much I love them.”

He laughs into her shoulder before pressing a kiss there and pushing his hand into her knickers. She’s never shy about how much she loves this and he’s never shy about giving it to her. Afterwards she licks his fingers clean, more to be outrageous than anything else and they finally get around to watching FRIENDS. It’s only when they settle in for the night that he catches sight of the doodles on his wrist. There’s a star and a crescent moon, a heart, a flower and and “I love you” across his wrist. He pulls her closer, kisses her hair and falls asleep with a smile. He takes care not to wash the “I love you” off the next day.

 

She takes to it then, leaving little messages on his wrist. Sometimes she does it while he’s asleep for him to wake up to and come join her in the kitchen and kiss her with a smile, sometimes while they’re watching telly or have friends over, sometimes when he has to leave. They’re usually short and sweet, almost like candy hearts. “I love you”, “be mine”, “come back”, “miss me”. Unless those times when they’re silly. “Thai or pizza?”, “pls get my blankie?”, “Jezza Kyle <3”.

One night, before he has to leave for a while, she traces an “I love you” on his wrist over and over in her favourite purple pen to make sure it stays for a while. He tries to keep it as long as possible, but it wears off before he comes back anyway. The next time she hands him the pen as well and he traces her letters and deepens the words every night he’s away. He catches himself wrapping his fingers around his wrist, as if he could feel the words there.

When it gets warmer and his sleeves get shorter, she starts to write on his thigh instead. His fans aren’t getting any less vicious and as much as she’s determined not to let it spoil this for them, she doesn’t want to provoke them either. He still wraps his fingers around his wrist. It’s strange. She hasn’t been doing it all that long, but now when he looks down at his naked wrist it feels almost empty. He tries wearing a bracelet to cover it up, but that’s even worse and he stops soon after.

One day he doodles a “hi” on Harry’s arm and the next day Harry shows up with a tell-tale tattoo bandage on. Louis’s not expecting it, but when Harry shows him, it sparks an idea in his mind. It’s just. He grabs his wrist and thinks of all the different things he’s been told. How could he choose just one? It brews in his mind though and it’s probably part of what makes him get his first tattoos. They’re not related to it, because this is the one that matters, the one that he really needs to get right, but they’re probably only there because he’s already made peace with the idea of permanently inking his skin.

In the end it’s a spur of the moment thing. He tags along to a tattoo parlour with Harry and Zayn and in one of the open portfolios lying around there’s a picture of a girl with quotation marks underneath her boob where - presumably, but not really, right? - her heart beats.

“D’you have time for me too if it’s just a small one?” he asks and when he gets given the go ahead picks up the photo and sits down. There’s still a faint shadow of her last message (“Elearbucks <3”) on his wrist and it’s enough to determine how far apart he wants the quotation marks, since her messages are always about the same size. It’s the first time the buzz of the needle doesn’t sound daunting at all and he’s smiling all the way through. Or, well, he feels like smiling all the way through. It still hurts.

When he finally gets to show Eleanor, her smile is blinding and she immediately digs around her purse for a pen, jotting down a simple “I love you”, filling out the space perfectly. She kisses the ink and then his lips and he pulls her to sit on his lap, because he doesn’t plan on letting her go any time soon. This message fades as well, but it doesn’t matter so long as he knows she’ll be back to fill the space again.

**The End**


End file.
